One Shoe Short of Madness
by squaredancer
Summary: There are several things in this world that irritate me somewhat. Particularly, I find cold coffee to be punishable by death. The worst of the lot, the hair-splitting, head-cracking event of only being able to find one shoe. There’s always one. Never both


**One Shoe Short of Madness**

There are several things in this world that irritate me somewhat. Particularly, I find cold coffee to be punishable by death. That is somewhere around the top of the scale. Below cold coffee, we find the mild annoyances such as wet slippers, cold floors and the ever present lack of sleep. Such trifles are nothing more than stocking fillers. The big fish tend to provoke a much more potent emotion than mild annoyance.

Above the cold coffee, which is where we find the 'high fliers' as I have dubbed them, you'll find things like malfunctioning equipment, realising the milk is curdled _after_ you've used it and quite possibly the worst of the lot, the hair-splitting, head-cracking event of only being able to find one shoe. There's always one. Never both, and never neither. Always _one_.

You see, if the universe allowed you to find both of the shoes you wished to wear well then, that would be making life too easy. Equally, by not being able to find either of the pair, you would be discouraged, and decide on a completely different pair. And so, we hit the problem. There is always one shoe where you left it. The other is always in the last place you look, which, of course, is completely logical. And generally the last place you look is either: the place you least expected it to be/the place that was so blindingly obvious you never bothered to look/under the house, hiding with the foundations.

Many people are fooled by this rule. They think they can outsmart the system by first looking in the most obvious place, then the most random place, and then under the house. Unfortunately, the universe knows all. It always seems to find a _more_ obvious place/a _more_ random place/another _house_ under which your shoe will lay, happy and content in your anger.

As it seems, you can't win.

But then, one day, both shoes are there. You are lulled into a false sense of security because of this. You woke up surprisingly chirpy, your floor was considerably tepid as you placed your feet to the floor, and your toes were met with the comforting feeling of dry slippers, snuggled in and warm.

Your breakfast toast made it out unburnt, and as your coffee sat on the bench awaiting your return from the bathroom, you realised that you had not squirted toothpaste anywhere, the hairbrush was, shock and amazement, in the drawer and there was toilet paper on the roll. This, in turn, meant the coffee was still warm as you got back to the kitchen.

You switch on the Wizard Wireless Network to find that the weather report is good, and then they play your favourite song. You're early and so get to spend an extra ten minutes reading the latest installment of _Balmy Breezes: A Hot Love Affair_ before you have to consider finding your shoes.

You approach the front door with some trepidation, dreading the sight of one lone shoe staring up at you from his mat, only to find that there's twin tongues' hanging out in your direction. Excellent!

Shoes are pulled on, hair is immaculate, no tiredness to speak of, teeth are clean and there is no evidence whatsoever of last night's takeaway on your hips. Now, if you could just find those car keys…

_Car keys_…

Okay. The car keys have grown legs and eloped with your wand. Also, your broomstick is AWOL.

No problem. You'll catch a lift with someone else, someone close by. You don't want to let this little hiccup effect your near perfect morning. You stuff your book into your bag, lock the door on your way out and prepare to make your way outside.

… Then you realise that you've left the efficiency report on the latest purchase of FedOwls on your bedside table. You shrug, no problem. You then reach into your bag for your keys to unlock the door. No keys.

So. Little temper tantrum in the hallway that you're absolutely _positive_ no one witnessed, and you find yourself in front of the door trying to rip it out of the frame. Seconds later you're crumpled and on the floor with a rusty door handle in your hand. Hmm. Oooh, look, there's a run in your stockings now too. Wonderful.

You sigh, and let it all fade away. You remember watching some kind of Aboriginal ritual on the WNB (_Wizarding News Broadcast_) the previous week on how to calm oneself. You stand in the hallway and attempt to 'flush' the negative energy from your life. You stop. It worked – you feel suddenly very positive.

With an air of respect about you, you walk elegantly onto the Muggle contraption that served to be quite useful at the end of a long hard day. The elevator clunked and grinded as it started its descent. Everything was good. You had a good excuse for the boss, a nice outfit and, well, your hair was perfect. Almost.

_CLUNK. WHIRR. BANG._

A suffering, martyred sigh escapes as you feel the lift come to a halt somewhere between Limbo and Hell. The smile is plastered there though, so you'll survive. At least your coffee was warm this morning.

Prying open the metal doors was somewhat harmful to your manicure (there were now three French tips laying innocently on the floor of the lift) but at least you manage to squeeze yourself out the bottom. Unfortunately, you also find that though last night's takeaway hadn't gone to your hips, it had found its way to a somewhat larger and more hazardous part of your anatomy. You pause to check your behind self-consciously as you pass the front desk, coming to the conclusion that you really need to visit the gym sometime later this week.

But that's okay. You've gotten out of the flat unscathed (relatively) and now you just need a lift… Whoops. You've left both your WMobile in your room and your wand, again, is not with you.

Alright then, a taxi. You stand on the corner hailing taxi's for a good ten minutes before one wheels up in front of you. Barely open the door and you are hit with the violent fumes of alcohol and contents that had obviously previously been in someone's tummy. Mmm. Delish.

Also, the strange little man in front speaks very little English, is missing four teeth and smells of week-old fish. It takes you half an hour to finally get Mr. Taxi Driver on the right route, another thirteen minutes to figure out what kind of fish he had been handling (Carp, just in case you wanted to store it in some remote section of your brain) and an extra three trying to explain why you'd only left him a miniscule tip. But you're at work.

Albeit, you smell worse, look worse and have a bigger behind than you did before you left home. Plus you are wand-less, report-less and car key-less. _But_ you're at work.

You smile and think how it could only get better from here on out. You don't notice the enormous lorry heading straight for the mammoth muddy puddle directly behind you, or the attractive chap who's just about to witness you swearing and spluttering in a wet and undignified matter. Nor do you notice that the taxi man has dropped you in front of the wrong 'Bright orange building left of the subway station and directly across from the takeaways' (somehow) and that the heel on your shoe is extremely close to giving way.

You will notice though. Shortly.

And to think, this morning you were worried the universe wasn't going to let you find both shoes at once… But at least your coffee was warm.


End file.
